


as clear as day, lord if i make it through tonight

by lafgayette



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ANGST! CRACK! REPRESSION! CATS DOING CUTE LITTLE CAT THINGS! DECLARATIONS OF LOVE!, Aziraphale/Crowley - Freeform, Crack, Crowley!POV, Humour, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, THIS ISNT CRACK YOU COWARDS!, and all three of these facts are ruining his life, and as one great philosopher once said, aziraphale is re-corporated in the body of a cat, crowley definitely isnt afraid of cats except for the fact he very much is, crowley is in love with aziraphale, crowley vs. cat, crowley vs. character development, crowley vs. his feelings, good omens crack, okay it basically is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 09:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19765465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafgayette/pseuds/lafgayette
Summary: “Meooow.” Crowley freezes, looks upwards, looks downwards, and wonders which great force is fucking with him now. Surely they couldn’t know. Surely the great bloody ineffable plan didn’t include taunting him with God’s worst creature, proof of Her rather questionable taste.“I’ll kill you.” Crowley says.“Meow!” The cat says.Crowley hates cats, until he doesn’t. Aziraphale is inconveniently re-corporated in the wrong body. Rather, the wrong species. Crowley can’t admit he’s in love with Aziraphale, until he does.There's crack, there's angst, and there's love. Also, The Black Eyed Peas.





	as clear as day, lord if i make it through tonight

**Author's Note:**

> No cats were harmed in the making of this. Except for one specific fictional cat with sky-blue eyes, who was harmed quite a bit. Be warned: this story is highly blasphemous. Do not read if you cannot tolerate Black Eyed Peas heresy.
> 
> Title is from The Mountain Goats – You or Your Memory.

It has been five hours since Aziraphale got himself inconveniently and quite gruesomely discorporated. Coincidentally, it has been approximately four and a half of those hours since Crowley had started staring at the wall. Glowering, rather. As that’s what demons do. They _glower_. Crowley musters his all, squints his eyes ever so slightly more, and the white paint of the wall quivers before curling off. 

“Serves you right.” He waits for the brief gurgle of demonic pleasure – the inherent adrenaline in his power. The fire that roar out of his throat and at his plants, their fear feeding him. The disgruntled complaints of nine-to-five commuters when somehow, _again, are you fucking kidding me?_ their train is late. The thrill at their shouts of _seriously? Can’t you at least have one for me to jump in front of?_ when their train is cancelled. He stares – _glowers_ – a little longer. Nothing. No demonic ecstasy. There’s something missing, then.

He’s not pouting. He’s _philosophising_. The ultimate demonic activity, in fact. The very demonic behaviour, one could argue, that landed him (quite literally) in hell. Ask a few questions, contemplate the exact ineffability of all the ineffable bloody nonsense, and suddenly you’re a demon. Quite a wound, but the salt took a few thousand years to come. And come it did, in the form of a few prattling knobs in Athens. Ask some questions in the stinking garden and you’re suddenly not worthy of heaven. Ask those questions in a toga stinking of goat shit and you’re revered throughout history. He’d met a few of them, the old philosophers. Right fucking knobs they were. _What is it to be a human?_ One of them had asked him. As if he had any bloody idea. As if he’d even _want_ to know. _To be human is to ask idiotic fucking questions._ He’d told him. The hemlock came shortly after. Crowley hadn’t anything to do with it, but he also hadn’t stopped it.

Whatever. He’s not pouting. The paint is peeling off like a sunburn now, flakes littering his lounge-room floor. _What’s missing?_ He sighs. Looks around. Sighs again, louder. He looks hopefully at the door, as though the answer will ring and pop in for a cuppa made with salt instead of sugar. He’d only installed the bloody doorbell to irritate Angel. And for the evil glory, of course. Crowley had waited days for his moment. The sound of familiar footsteps down the hallway had him scrambling to the peephole. He grinned as Aziraphale inspected the doorbell before slowly pressing the button. Crowley prepared for his glorious demonic victory as the song of his triumph begun – _watcha gonna do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk?_ Aziraphale startled. _I’ma get get get you drunk; get you love drunk off my hump._ Angel had clapped his hands in delight, murmuring a stupid little “oh, wonderful!”. Crowley had stopped smiling. _My hump my hump my hump my hump._ The song felt like a taunt. Then Aziraphale started to sing. _My hump my hump my hump my lovely little lumps! Check it out!_ Crowley’s mouth fell open. His left eye twitched. When Aziraphale thanked him for providing such _cute little bepop_ he’d had to get mind-splittingly drunk to cope. Thankfully Aziraphale had brought the good wine. And after a few bottles the angel became incapable of stringing a sentence together, let alone what the Black Eyed Peas deemed a chorus. 

The paint on the walls has stopped peeling. Crowley’s still staring at it, albeit softly, a small smile quirking his lips. His hand springs to his mouth, cursing as he realises. When had he started doing _that?_ The slight tug of his subconscious insistently pulls at him. He feels around its edges, prods at the sensation. He should probably figure it out, finally feed the little niggling thought eating away at him. Or he could keep doing what he had been for centuries, which is anything other than that. When have the answers ever been anything but absolute shite? No question worth asking has ever been answered with anything but ineffability and, when that fails, twelve bottles of wine. 

A strange gait of footsteps pads down the hall. Crowley bolts upright, snapping out of what one could call a reverie. That’s if one would like to have their eyes clawed out of their skulls and the Black Eyed Peas forever on loop in their mind. Crowley would call it scheming. Scheming about his…feelings. Not that he had those. Seriously, you could ask anyone, not once has he –

“Meoooooooow.” Crowley freezes, looks upwards, looks downwards, and wonders which great force is fucking with him now. Surely they couldn’t know. _Surely_ the great bloody ineffable plan didn’t include taunting him with God’s worst creature, proof of Her rather questionable taste.

“MEOW!” Crowley definitely does not startle. Nor does he hurriedly check under the couch, panicked by the nearness of the sound. 

A distinctly feline gurgle, the sound of claws against a wall, a little _bing!_ and a loud thump. It begins. _Watcha gonna do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk? I’ma -_

It ends. He’s off the couch, snatching open the door and eviscerating the blasted doorbell before the Black Eyed Peas can tell him precisely what they’ll do with all that junk. All that junk inside their trunk. If only he could burn the song out of his brain.

“Meow.” A large white cat pleasantly greets him. It peers up at him, head tilted slightly, a trail of fur left in its wake. Crowley looks at the cat. He looks at what used to be his doorbell. Looks at the claw marks on the wall. 

“What do you want?” The cat doesn’t move. Neither does Crowley. He does cross his arms, however. To show his dominance, that is. To instil a quivering thread of terror in the feline. And if it happens to keep his fingers away from the cat’s dumb mouth, with its stupid big tongue lolling out of its big stupid head, well that’s just a coincidence, isn’t it? 

“I’ll kill you.” Crowley says.

“Meow!” The cat says. Rather agreeably, in fact. Crowley’s eyebrows furrow, a new dilemma rearing its furry head. 

“You- you - are you _agreeing?_ ”

“Meow!” The cat says, very agreeably.

Crowley’s eyebrows furrow further, threatening to slide down his face and begin their life anew as a moustache. Two thoughts have taking to the forefront of his mind: firstly, that this cat can understand English and, seeing as he’s only known the feline for a few moments, possibly Spanish. Secondly, that this cat has a death-wish. There is a cat in his doorway that understands both Crowley and mortality. No wonder it’s suicidal.

Crowley and the cat stare at each other. The cat grows impatient, its strangely familiar features growing exasperated. Crowley isn’t sure that cats should be so expressive. Nor should they have such human eyes. The cat is looking at him disapprovingly, it’s blue eyes eerily similar to –

“Oi! You furry bastard, I’ll-“ The cat runs between his legs and leaps onto the kitchen counter. Rather, it _intends_ to leap onto the counter. In fact, it leaps approximately five centimetres _short of the counter_ , clinging miserably to the side of the bench. After desperate flails all four legs are on his kitchen counter. His beautiful black granite counter, where he drinks his wine. The same counter now covered in fur. Bile rises in Crowley’s throat while the flat surface proves further disastrous for the feline. It continues to struggle, a rabid ball of white skittering across the counter like a sentient marshmallow hell-bent on having Crowley commit his first murder. It collides into an empty bottle of wine and two dirty glasses, sending them crashing to the floor.

Crowley charges at the cat. He’s had enough of its shit. It’s one thing to interrupt his pouting, another to interrupt his pouting with The Black Eyed Peas. To then stare at him with freakishly knowing eyes and meow a suicidal plead, that’s just a rough Tuesday. But to shatter his last reminder, the only thing he had to keep for the next few months of waiting for Aziraphale’s re-appearance – 

“You _bassstard._ ” He leaps across the bench, grabbing for the cat. The cat takes Crowley’s enraged action as an invitation to leap lovingly into his arms. It ends up on his face, claws desperately scratching for purchase. Crowley pulls at the mass uselessly, his curses lost in mouthfuls of fur.

The scrabble ends with a white tail swinging gaudily in front of Crowley’s face. The cat is, technically, sitting atop of Crowley. However, the cat’s sheer mass is bigger than that of Crowley’s _very disgruntled head_. Thus, the cat is _mostly_ sitting on Crowley’s head, with half of its body hanging onto his shoulders, back, forehead and, somehow, his left pinky finger.

“Meow meow! Meow-ly!” Crowley pauses his assault. He tries to look at the cat, tilts his head upwards. He quickly stops as nails dig into his scalp. Instead, he walks to the reflective surface of the kitchen back-splash, staring at the distinguishably smug cat in the reflection.

“What did you just say?” Crowley would kill anybody who called him an optimist. When asked if the glass was half-full or half-empty, he’d shatter it on the somebody’s skull. But there is a part of him that hopes, that begs, for the cat not to answer.

“Meow-ly, mew mew!” The cat holds itself daintily, an expression of amused resolve on its face. Crowley continues to stare at the familiar expression. The cat huffs, sitting back on its haunches and flicking its eyes to Crowley, to the reflection, away and back. It sighs again, and Crowley could have sworn it sounded like “ _oh, really!_ ”. Instead Crowley does swear, cursing the cat in a language no mortal could withstand to hear without kneeling over. The cat simply taps him twice on the head and raises its eyebrows. Crowley didn’t know cats had eyebrows. The truth is slowly rearing its ugly head. Crowley is determined to have it decapitated. 

“You’re a filthy little mongrel that’s been sent by Hastur to ruin my day. That’s it, that’s all, thank you and good night. Would you like to leave via the window or via the afterlife?” 

“Meow-ly! Reeoow. Reow!” The cat is delightfully wiggling atop his head. Crowley’s left eye twitches. He’s still looking into the reflection, staring back into the eyes of the cat. The cat pauses, looking at Crowley with – with – _something_. A look that Crowley has seen for centuries, now peering out under tufts of scraggly white fur and atop a long set of whiskers.

Crowley sighs. A long, deep sigh. It’s not a sigh of resignation so much as a sigh of being resigned to resignation. He gently picks the cat off his head and places it on a chair. 

“Aziraphale?” His left eye is twitching again.

“Meow-ly!” The cat – _Aziraphale_ , Crowley reminds himself, _Aziraphale the Angel of the Eastern Gate who just happens to be a cat right now, as you do, happens to the best of us_ – Aziraphale wiggles excitedly, nudging Crowley’s elbow with his head. Crowley jumps back in what is definitely not fear, scowling at Aziraphale’s apologetic face. 

“Shut up. My elbows are sensitive, alright? You know that. Sensitive Elbows, that’s what they call me downstairs.” Crowley notices the cat fur strewn across his apartment and tries not to gag. “It’s a – _glurgh_ – it’s a real – _burhg_ ¬– it’s a real, real, uh – real demon thing.” Aziraphale watches him in knowing amusement. Crowley takes another step back, the peeled paint from the wall crunching under his shoe. He can still smell the fishy tang of Aziraphale breath. “You wouldn’t’ – _hngh_ – get it. And why are you questioning me? You’re the one who’s broken into my apartment. You’re the ones who’s a cat. What do you want me to do? Shift into snake and eat you?” Aziraphale begins to loudly purr. Crowley experiences the entire spectrum of human emotion in rapid succession. It’s not that different from the demonic spectrum. Thirty seconds later he settles on confusion. 

“You want me to-“ Aziraphale begins to dance. Crowley stares in silence, slowly starting to wonder if he’s lost his mind. Aziraphale jumps off the chair and puts his stomach on the floor, hind legs squatting while pulling himself across the ground with his front paws. He crawls across the floor veering left and right, ass in the air wiggling madly. 

“Meow!” Aziraphale says helpfully. Or rather, in a helpful tone, as his actions are far from resembling helpfulness. Crowley’s aware that the cat is trying to convey a message, but he’s too busy regretting every moment that led to this particular one to figure it out. 

Then the hissing starts. Aziraphale is still squirming across the floor, ass slowly lowering as he loses enthusiasm and glances at Crowley in disappointment. Crowley is utter shite at charades (despite it being one of his inventions, thank you very much, top marks there) but he knows that look – knows all of Aziraphale’s – except for that particular one he does sometimes, the stupid little gleamy one, which he can’t figure out -

“I’m not some bloody cat whisperer!” Crowley yells, “You’re looking at me like I’m a moron for not getting this when _you’re_ the one squirming around hissing like some –“ Aziraphale stops, jumping up on all fours and nodding earnestly. “Oh. Really? You’re choosing now to insult me?” Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He nods at Crowley, nods at himself, and wiggles his ass some more. 

“Ssssss! Ssssssss!”

“Oh. Right. Bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Crowley takes a breath and loses his legs. He’s eye to eye with Aziraphale now, a soothing ease rolling through his body as he slithers towards the cat. His scales glimmer under the harsh lighting of his apartment. 

“Oh, Crowley! Can you understand me? I thought this might work.” Crowley had thought Aziraphale’s eyes in the face of a cat was traumatic. Hearing his voice come out of the cat’s viscerally upsetting body was worse. So much worse.

“Hmpf. Those lizards have been talking with those geese the entire time, the bastards. Speaking of morons that eat all my bread! First you go and get yourself discorporated –“

“I didn’t go and get anything. That lightning bolt came out of nowhere.“

“It came from the sky! Then you come to my apartment and ruin my party. It was quite a party, you know. ‘Course everyone had to leave once I heard you. And now you’re – you’re – you said you’d be back _soon_.” Crowley slithers around Aziraphale, taking caution not to brush against him. The sight of the cat still instils what is definitely not terror in Crowley. He eyes the claws, the salvia dripping out of the cat’s dopey mouth. 

“I am back.” Aziraphale sounds weary. Crowley pauses.

“As a cat.”

“Which is why I came to you.”

“Oh, of course. Of course! Because I’m renowned for loving cats. Can’t get enough of them, me.” 

“Because I need your help, Crowley.” Crowley stops slithering, pretending to inspect under the couch. He notes the flecks of paint. There’s that niggling feeling again. He doesn’t even suppose snakes have subconsciousness. Can’t escape this bloody feely-weely nonsense in any form. Satan have mercy.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I won’t go near you. Not when you’re –“ Crowley goes to gesture before remembering he doesn’t have hands, “Like that. I thought Gabriel wasn’t fond of your softness. Yet he gave you the body of some fluffy little disgrace? How did this happen, Aziraphale?”

“Dear boy, if I could tell you I would. I thought – you know how it is upstairs. And downstairs. With all the bureaucracy forestalling any wherewithal...the waiting period for a new body is usually months after discorporation.”

“I know, Angel.” Crowley says gloomily. The tone surprises them both.

“But I woke up so soon, you see,” Aziraphale continues gently, “And I knew something had to have gone wrong. Well, it could’ve gone terribly right, getting a new body so snappily –“

“Heaven and Hell don’t do _right_. Or wrong. They’re just there.” Crowley hisses. Before the-Armageddon-that-wasn’t such a comment would have set Aziraphale alight with the burning passion of righteousness. Crowley didn’t mind the sermons, not really. He mostly just zoned out and watched Angel enjoy his moral simplicity. Aziraphale would pause mid-lecture, Crowley would make a vaguely inflammatory comment, and he’d earn himself another thirty minutes of Aziraphale speaking himself hoarse, tongue poking out to wet his dry lips, Crowley watching his wildly gesticulating hands.

Now Aziraphale’s mouth opens, closes. “I suppose you’re right.” 

Crowley squirms uncomfortably. He hadn’t meant to –

“What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything.” To say that Crowley spoke before thinking would be to say the chicken came before the egg. The niggling feeling becomes more insistent the longer he’s with Aziraphale. He’s quite fed up with it, truth be told. Honestly, some repressed thoughts cannot take a hint. He’s clearly ignoring you. Move on, get a new life, stop ruining his, thank you very much.

“Well that’s the problem, dear boy. The only way to get back to my old body would be to leave this one. Which, er. Well. You know.” Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. 

“Oh, of course. I’ll just unhinge my jaw and chomp away, shall I? Or should I get some herbs, a few spices, have you roll about in them first?” Crowley eases closer to the cat, closer than he’s ever dared to get to any member of the vermin species. 

“Please, Crowley. Get it over with and I’ll be back in a jiffy. If you close your eyes it won’t even be like eating a cat, will it? You could be eating a dog, or a nice big mouse.”

“If I close my eyes I’ll still be killing you.” Crowley snaps, the smell of burning books strong in his memory. The flames, his curses, his loss. Aziraphale watches the snake’s tongue flick. 

“It’s how I come back to you.” Aziraphale says softly. Crowley continues his studies of the curled shreds of paint under the couch. He could get a PhD in it. Professor Crowley, Doctor of Dried Paint and Avoiding Emotions. Then he stands.

“Quite the nuisance, you are.” 

“Meow?” Aziraphale looks up at Crowley in confusion. Crowley shakes his limbs out and re-adjusts his sunglasses. He still finds the furry moron deeply terrifying, to the point of genuine revulsion. If it weren’t for Aziraphale’s eyes he’d have kicked the dammed thing off his door-step and back to Ancient Egypt. He scoops the cat up and carries him out of the apartment, trying not to gag.

“We’ll – _hurnck_ – get you killed alright. Get you nice and properly killed. Won’t have my Angel getting eaten by snakes or skinned by some psychopathic twelve-year-old. This isn’t the fourteenth – _glrgh_ – century, Aziraphale. We’re not barbarians.” 

He opens the Bentley door and takes once last loving look at the pristine interior of the car. Aziraphale makes an undignified _mpfh!_ sound as Crowley unceremoniously dumps him on the seat.

\--

They’re hurtling down the street, Aziraphale’s claws scratching against the leather. Crowley tries very hard to ignore the destruction. Aziraphale does not make it easy. 

“REEEEEOOOWWW!” Aziraphale howls, sliding across the seat as though Crowley had dunked his paws in butter before plunking him in the car. 

“Cheer up, Angel!” Crowley makes a particularly nauseating right turn, “We’re going to get you killed! What a lovely little date we’re having!” Aziraphale pauses his howling. Crowley wonders if it’s possible to be this much of a prat without a tongue. He makes another turn. If he cut his tongue out he could feed it to Aziraphale, who appears to be choking on his own. “How about some music, then? Calm you down a bit.” He switches on the radio carelessly.

 _Delilah, you’re the apple of my eyes_ , Freddie Mercurcy croons. Crowley carefully considers crashing the car into a church. _Meow, meow, meow. Delilah – I love you, Delilah, oh! Ooh you make so very happy – you give me kisses! Meow, meow, meow –_

Aziraphale’s fluffy paw desperately mashes at the car’s radio system. Finally, he smacks the right button. He turns to glare at Crowley.

“Aw. You’re no fun. It was just getting to the good bit.” It was not, as Crowley knows, for there is no good bit. Aziraphale jumps off the seat and curls beneath it. Crowley’s still whistling the tune as he pulls up to the vets and slides out of the car.

“’Scuse me, mate! You wanna try that again with your eyes open?” In the entrance of the vets a middle-aged man desperately clutches a turtle. This same man yells at Crowley, gesturing to the Bentley, the five parked cars it blocks, and the tire marks strewn across the manicured grass. Rather, the man attempts to gesture. The turtle is quite large, and requires the support of two hands, and thus the man rather waves his turtle threateningly at Crowley.

“Would you like to keep your eyes in your skull?” Crowley replies with a sweet smile. He opens the door for Aziraphale who scurries out from beneath he seat and promptly trips over. With a roll of his eyes Crowley scoops him up, noting his gag-reflex as scarcely tickled by the cat’s presence. Aziraphale, however, notes his gag-reflex as decidedly tickled. He rumbles ominously, coughing wetly into Crowley’s arms.

“If you ¬chuck up on me I’ll kill – I’ll – I’ll keep you alive. Forever. As a cat. You’ll live to a nice ripe old age too, you hear me? And no sushi, not for cats. Just canned tuna. For a lifetime.” He hisses into Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale meows nervously in response. The turtle blinks at Crowley as the man continues to gesticulate, threatening to call the police. Crowley decides that the turtle is feeling peckish. In fact, Mr Turtle could really go for some nice, delicious human fingers. A big ol’ chunk of flesh, that’s what Mr Turtle wants.

The door to the vet shuts on the man’s scream of pain. Crowley saunters to the counter and plonks Aziraphale in front of the bewildered receptionist. Aziraphale smiles charmingly at the young man who recoils instinctively. 

“’Ello there,” Distant screams are still heard, cries of _how could you!?_ echoing throughout the waiting room. “This is a cat,” Crowley points at Aziraphale who nods in agreement, “And I’d like to have him killed.” 

The receptionist looks at him. 

“Please.” Crowley tries. The receptionist begins to awkwardly chuckle. Aziraphale perks¬ up. Crowley clenches his fists.

“That’s…That’s really good, sir. Can’t say I’ve heard that one before. Is there something I can actually help you with? And who’s this little fellow?” He scratches Aziraphale behind the ear. The cat leans into it, purring indecently.

“Control yourself, Aziraphale.” Crowley spits.

“Azeerafell, is it? He’s a little cutie. Might wanna pop him on the scales. We have some fantastic diet kibbles, the vet –“ Crowley snatches Aziraphale from the receptionist, cradling him against his chest.

“ _Shut up._ Book me in for the next appointment with your best cat murderer. Or whatever you call them. And go eat some of that diet kibble yourself. See how you like it.” Crowley stalks to the nearest plastic chair that alarmingly creaks beneath him. He glares at it. The creaking stops. The receptionist is in a daze, slowly clicking about on a computer before beelining to the _fantastic_ diet kibbles. Aziraphale is still purring, bumping his head against Crowley’s chin. Crowley hesitates before pulling him away from his chest, holding him at arms lengths.

“Have you no dignity, Angel?” The cat purrs louder, wiggling like a toddler. Crowley rolls his eyes and puts him back against his chest. Looking up, he notices the stares of fellow waiting-room inhabitants. Tiredly, he waves his hand. Miraculously, their animals are completely cured. Thankfully, they suddenly decide to go home and serve their pets a five-course meal. The waiting-room empties in a matter of moments.

Aziraphale purrs to such a violently loud degree that Crowley worries he’ll vibrate out of his arms. He finds the sweet spot behind his ears, settling in the small chair as Aziraphale shifts comfortably, stretching out his arms to knead into Crowley’s legs. 

It is at this point that three disastrous thoughts make themselves apparent to Crowley: firstly, Aziraphale is in his arms and gently kneading at his legs. Secondly, that whilst he still hates cats, he does, in fact, quite like Aziraphale being in his arms. Thus leading him to the third and final thought: that he would much rather the actual Aziraphale be in his arms. Perhaps without kneading his leg.

“AH. Careful.” Aziraphale looks guilty at Crowley before retracting his claws.

Definitely without the kneading bit. The tug of Crowley’s subconscious is in an Olympic-grade game of tug-of-war with his conscious mind. There’s something it wants to tell him, and Crowley knows he doesn’t want to hear it. He and Aziraphale never had a simple relationship. But they had the Agreement, ensuring the safety of Aziraphale’s friendship for Crowley. A harbour that he had docked his ship in over centuries, a home could come back to. A home Crowley thought he’d lost – the sound of fire truck sirens and ash filing his throat. A home he had mourned. His lips curl. A home that had been rebuilt – his best friend returned, back to him, _always_. Until his _always_ was threatened by the great thundering idiots of Heaven and Hell. He’d fought for his home, then – fought alongside it, _I’ll never talk to you again_ – the constant threat of having it taken away making him pull it closer, closer, until he couldn’t bear to let go. Couldn’t think to let go, not when all was said and all was done, when they were safe in the dark quiet of Tadfield’s bus stop – instead, a plead and a promise: _you can stay at my place, if you like_. He’d brought warm Aziraphale back to his cold flat. Only then did he think of it as home. Rather, his home within his house. The thoughts that popped up in his brain – usually crushed before they could finish – that yelled closer, closer. _Bring him in, don’t let him go._ The thoughts that spiked his adrenaline, made his nails dig into his palms; that sent him further away, made him push and push and push until he expected Aziraphale to leave. Sometimes he did. But he always came back; back to Crowley and his need, his aching need to pull and pull and the fear that made him push. 

Crowley regains himself, tries to push the thoughts back down. Opens the closet door in his mind, shoves it all back in and desperately slams it shut. The lock won’t catch. It keeps swinging open, the thoughts overflowing and falling back on him. He can’t control it – waits for the adrenaline spike, the clenched fists. The terror is there – the fear of it going wrong, or more frightfully, of it going right ¬– but louder is the hope, the desire. The thoughts buoy him, lift him. His heart lets out a yelp of shock.

Or maybe it was the cat. Aziraphale glares at him and Crowley softens his hold, unaware he’d begun to squeeze so tightly. 

“Thought you might be cold.” Crowley explains lamely. Aziraphale watches him, a strange yet familiar look in his eyes. Crowley thinks he might know what it is. Thinks he might have always known. He’s afraid to let himself think it, afraid to be wrong, afraid to be right. Afraid of what happens if he accepts it, takes it in, builds a shelter in Aziraphale’s love only to have it burn down.

Aziraphale nods to the water bowl and clumsily jumps off Crowley’s lap. Crowley’s arms are empty. He looks at the walls of the vet office, feels the same sensation as he had in his flat – something’s missing. Aziraphale looks back at him. The feeling abates.

Crowley continues to stare, lost in the thoughts he finally found. Or, rather, let find him. 

“Azeerafeel?” The receptionist calls out, bits of cat food stuck in his teeth. “The vet is ready to see you now.” Crowley feels sick as he turns to pick up Aziraphale. The cat is gone, having left a trail of water from the bowl into the produce shelves.

“Angel!” He follows the water and saunters between the shelves. The thoughts won’t stop now, torrenting him in sweet rainfall. 

“Angel, where are you? The vet’s –“ He turns the corner. Looks once, looks again. His brain takes two minutes to comprehend the site before him.

“Shit. _Shit._ Shit, shit, shit!” Aziraphale is draped on a shelf as his tongue lolls out of his head. His eyes are dazed, tail swinging languidly to and fro. The cat perks his ears at the sound of Crowley, letting out a stoned _meeoooww-lyyyy!_

Catnip litters the floor. Aziraphale is baked out of his mind.

“Having all the fun without me, are we?” 

“Meow-ly! Meooooooow.” Aziraphale lets out the cat equivalent of a laugh. It sounds more like a squeaky toy being put through a blender.

“Tsk tsk. Not very angelic behaviour is it? What’s next, hm? Catnip’s quite the gateway drug, Aziraphale. Next thing you know you’ll be wearing jeans and listening to bepop.”

A delighted sigh escapes Aziraphale. He attempts to sit up and succeeds in falling off the shelf. Crowley instinctively reaches out. Aziraphale lands on his feet, swaying slightly. Crowley leans against the shelves in the hopes of playing off his panic. 

“Meow-ow meow-ow meow meow meow? Meow meow meow meow-ow meow meow?” Crowley slowly backs away from Aziraphale. The cat is swaying in tune with his meowing rhythm and delightfully approaches Crowley on unsteady paws.

“Don’t do this.” Crowley says softly.

“Me-ow m-m-m-meow meow meow!” Aziraphale is gaining speed now, singing faster. Crowley backs away. He didn’t think it was possible. How could a loving God allow this? Aziraphale is gaining confidence in his singing, the Black Eyed Peas song taking shape easily in his meow’s. “Meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow!” 

“Please.” Crowley begs. 

““Me-ow! Me-ow, me-ow, me-ow! Meoooow!” 

Crowley backs into the vet. Aziraphale runs into Crowley. 

“Ah, this must be little Azeerafeel. Would you like to come in and say goodbye?” She looks sympathetically at Crowley, “Or leave him with us? He’ll be in safe hands.” _Safe hands!_ Crowley wants to shout. _You’re going to kill him!_

He picks Aziraphale up, looking at the vet. He goes to speak and finds he can’t. Holding Aziraphale to his face Crowley looks at him with pleading eyes.

“What do I do? Tell me what you want me to do.” Aziraphale looks at him dumbly, eyes glazed and tongue still sticking out. Slowly, gently, he bumps his nose against Crowley’s. 

Crowley runs, hurriedly sliding into the Bentley. He’s driving quickly, dangerously, with Aziraphale too high to care. He can barely look at the cat. The thoughts that swell up, the clench of his heart –

“You bastard. What the – what do I do now? I can’t kill you, Angel.” He pauses, tacks on a weak excuse, “You’re so bloody stoned you’ve probably forgotten you’re even a cat. Vet comes at you with a big needle and you think it’s a joint. Can’t have you showing up at Gabriel’s doorstep asking for kibbles and trying to convince him aliens are real, can we? It’s a bad look for the both of us.” 

He glances at Aziraphale who’s watching him, eyes clearing as he sobers up. The cat tilts his head. He realises Aziraphale’s asking a question. That he’s always been asking, and that Crowley’s always known the answer to.

“Meow?” 

“Still can’t understand you, Angel. It’s just - We’ve been close to our end too many times. Can’t lose you again, can I? Not when we just got a proper beginning after Armageddon.”

“Meow.”

“I know it’s the only bloody way to get you back! How’s that for fucking ineffable, eh? I’ll figure it out, Angel. I just – Let’s go home, yeah? Let’s go home, and we’ll – we’ll figure out a different way. A way where I don’t have to throw you off a tall building or feed you to a shark. Surely – “

“Meow!” 

“I’ll figure it out! Maybe there’s a way we can get you back in your body without the delay. Without you having to go. Screw Heaven. We’ll get it done ourselves, right? Come home with me. I’ll stay in snake form, we can –“ Crowley is swerving over the road, barely miracle-ing himself out of harms way. “Watch where you’re going, dickhead!” He yells at a man who’d been trying to cross the road. Who goes walking with such a great long pole, tapping it about like he’s looking for water? The idiot deserves to be hit for giving his dog such a stupid harness and idiotic vest. 

“It’s a great plan. An ineffable plan, really. Won’t have to spend all those boring months alone, will I? Won’t kick you out on your sad fluffy arse. And I can still shift into human form and get you sushi, whatever you want. Maybe they can put you in a booster seat at the Ritz, eh?” Crowley isn’t driving so much as he is barely avoiding crashing. Aziraphale doesn’t look at the road, watching Crowley carefully.

“Meow? Meow?”

“What? I don’t – just listen, alright! We can – a home – together. Damnit! You know what I’m trying to say, don’t you? Right?” He looks over to Aziraphale. The gleam is back in his eyes. Crowley can’t remember a time when it left, only times when he convinced himself it wasn’t there. “Hah! Angel, demon, snake, cat. Cosy little family, isn’t it? So waddaya say? Live out your cat life with –“ Neither see the red light, the screaming driver, the car that crashes into the Bentley. They’re both looking at each other.

\--

The months pass slowly in hell. That is, if they pass at all. Crowley’s not too sure. He’d tried to ask about the whole metaphysical dilemma of time. It’d gotten him a lot of blank looks and a toad thrown in the vague direction of his head.

Time passes. Or Crowley passes by it. Dark hallways, rotting stenches, low-grade evil. He spends most of his time trying to get the hell out, both himself out of there and it out of himself. 

Nothing in hell reminds Crowley of Aziraphale, yet everything somehow comes back to him. Like one of those backyard tennis poles with the ball attached to it on a string. It goes round and round before smacking Crowley in the head. Fun for all the family, endless concussions at the low price of sacrificing all your dignity.

He’s never been this desperate to get back on Earth. He’s never been so afraid, either. He convinces himself that Aziraphale was oblivious to what Crowley had been saying in the car. What with the catnip, and the impossibility of Aziraphale wanting the same thing. But mostly the catnip. They were friends and enemies, after all. Best at the former and best at being the worst of the latter. That was all it had been and all it could be.

Keeping something repressed for hundreds of centuries was hard enough. Shoving it back down again after it escaped his control was near impossible. So he doesn’t. Crowley thinks about Aziraphale, feels his love for him, accepts it being unrequited. If only Shakespeare were still around, the two of them could get absolutely hammered. Crowley had at least two tragedies worth of material in his feely-weely bullshit, and a few more comedies.

One could call it philosophising. Crowley knows its pouting. Hastur suddenly appears behind him one day with heavy breaths in Crowley’s ear. 

“Moping round doing nothing. You’re a demon, Crowley. This is where you’re for.” Crowley watches him join the other demons as they shuffle through the halls, dead in every sense of the word. 

\--

One day, somewhere deep in the annuls of hell and murky time, Crowley closes his eyes. When he opens them the late afternoon light is twisting through his windows. Breathing deeply he smells the leather, his plants, old wine stains. He takes a step and hears paint flakes crunch beneath his shoe. Reaching for his keys he realises the Bentley is currently no more than one of those awful modern art pieces made of twisted metal and daddy issues. Crowley panics, desperate to get to the bookshop.

_Watcha gonna do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk? I’ma get get get get you drunk, get you love drunk off my humps._

He runs to the door. Unless you asked him if he ran, in which case he coolly sauntered in the vague direction of the door. 

“Aziraphale!” 

“Oh, Crowley!” He wraps Crowley in a tight hug, the basket under his arms digging into the demon. Crowley freezes, inhales the scent of his angel deeply before clinging to him. Something in Crowley sings, the niggling sensation gone. Nothing’s missing.

They go inside and pour two glasses of wine. Aziraphale goes to put his basket on the kitchen counter, thinks better of it, and puts it on the floor. 

“I’ve missed you terribly, dear boy.”

“It’s nice to see you with two legs. Although the constant drool was quite becoming. Wassat?” Crowley asks, pointing to the basket. 

“Don’t you mind. I really must thank you, Crowley. For everything you did.” Aziraphale’s voice carries an edge of caution, his eyes a slight challenge. Part of Crowley wants to slap the smug look off his face. Most of Crowley wants to watch it melt away beneath his kiss.

He shrugs instead. 

“Part of the job, isn’t it? Taking your best friend to the vet to be put down, only for him to get stoned off catnip and end up T-boned in a Bentley. Pretty sure that’s in the clause of my demonic contract.” Aziraphale laughs and pats him on the arm. In a clearly rehearsed gesture, his eyebrows furrow in dramatic worry before he rips his hand away.

“Sorry dear. Wouldn’t want to harm your sensitive elbows. They call you that downstairs, you know.” The basket jostles. Crowley is too busy having his ass handed to him by the angel to notice.

“Shut up. You’re lucky I didn’t throw put you in a plastic bag and throw you in the nearest river.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“I should’ve.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very comfortable home. Wed have to get quite a big bag for the both of us.” Crowley is silent. “You do still want that, don’t you? Or did the offer only pertain to creatures you could drown in rivers?” Crowley’s mouth is open, desperately trying to say something as his thoughts slip away from his like soap in a bath.

“You – you – there’s – I’d-“

Aziraphale puts down his glass. Slowly, he takes Crowley’s and delicately places it on the counter. He cups Crowley’s face in his hands. Crowley thinks he might die. Aziraphale leans in, slowly, searching Crowley’s eyes. He pauses centimetres from Crowley’s face, his wine-stained breath warming Crowley’s cold lips. He tilts his head, quirks a brow. Pauses, asks.

Crowley answers. He pulls Aziraphale to him, pushes his lips against the angel’s. Crowley half-expects his heart to burst out of his chest and flop lazily around on the kitchen floor. He’s pulling the angel closer, drinking in his breath and feeding off his body. Aziraphale’s hand is in his hair, centuries and centuries of longing and pushing and running now pulling them together, closer and closer. Crowley feels the fear, the terror, the songs of hopelessness singing in his ears – but louder is his love for Aziraphale’s, the angel’s panted breaths, small moans and the taste of Aziraphale on Crowley’s tongue and the sound of Crowley’s name in Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Meow.” 

_“NO.”_ Crowley’s entire life flashes before his eyes. _“You. Are. Joking.”_ Aziraphale pulls away sheepishly, smoothing his ruffled clothing. 

“Meoooow.” Crowley looks at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looks at Crowley.

“Is that your basket meowing at me,” Crowley takes a deep breath, “Or are you just happy to see me?’ 

“Well, the thing is…”

The cat’s name is Mrs G. Fluffy. Crowley finds this out over a much needed second glass of wine and in-between much deserved kisses. Aziraphale had been sent back to Earth the same day as Crowley. He’d opened his eyes for approximately ten seconds before rushing to Crowley’s apartment. Aziraphale tells him of his hurried walk, the sad mewling he heard along the way. Following the sound, he saw the little grey cat. All bones and eyes and tufts of grey fur, her left ear half missing. Yet her muted yellow eyes had been oddly defiant, and even more oddly, filled with love.

“Reminded me of somebody else, in fact.” 

“Don’t make me regret not having you euthanised. I’m too young to be a father, Aziraphale. I can’t take care of her.” 

“You don’t have to. We’ll do it together. Also, my dear boy, you’re quite literally thousands of years old.”

Crowley adds the middle name, the G standing for Gabriel. He takes immense pleasure in his choice. 

“Would you please tell Gabriel to stop eating paint off the floor?” 

“Mrs Gabriel Fluffy! That is _not_ a worthwhile meal!” Aziraphale chastises the cat. They curl up together on the couch, all three of them. Crowley says the things he’d never dared to think. Aziraphale says the things he’d always thought but never dared say. The cat purrs delightedly between them.

“Shall I teach Mrs. G the song of our people?” Aziraphale asks, a demonic twinkle in his eyes. He begins to hum The Black Eyed Peas. Crowley laughs, loud and angelic, while he pushes Aziraphale off the sofa. Mrs Gabriel glares at them. Crowley slides down next to Aziraphale, pulling him in, closer, together. He doesn’t let go. Mrs G. Fluffy pushes herself between them.

“Meooooow.” 

“We’re having a _moment_ here!” Aziraphale laughs into Crowley’s mouth, threading their hands together as in vow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts, comments, and general blasphemies would be more than appreciated.
> 
> You can find me on the hellsite at unpopularqueen.tumblr.com for more void-screaming and awful jokes!
> 
> I don't know how I can look anybody in the eyes ever again after writing this.


End file.
